Interrogation & Spy Identity Reveal
The spy didn't scream.
Not at first.
The East Wing's lowest cellar wasn't part of the original architectural plans—it was an old storm bunker carved beneath the foundation, long forgotten until Charles had SIGMA scan the estate for hidden spaces. It was damp, windowless, reinforced with stone and residual anti-magic runes that muted Qi outbursts.
Perfect for… conversations.
The man was bound to a reinforced obsidian chair, wrists glowing faintly with spiritual suppression cuffs. His face was bloodied, one eye already swollen shut. A shallow wound traced his left cheek, not deep enough to cripple—just enough to sting.
Knight Elmer stood to the side like a statue, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He didn't speak unless needed. His role was simple: enforcement. This interrogation belonged to Charles.
Charles stood calmly in front of the man, dressed not in noble silks but in simple training garb—sleeves rolled, gauntlet glowing faintly, expression unreadable.
"So," he said casually, "let's talk about last night."
The spy said nothing, though his breath rasped shallowly. His cultivation had been temporarily sealed, and the side effects of SIGMA's capture arrays had clearly left him drained. Still, there was defiance in his gaze.
Charles crouched slightly, tilting his head.
"You walked through my orchard. Activated two tripwire arrays. Almost made it through the illusion corridor before SIGMA triggered the kinetic snare. That's impressive… for a rat."
He smiled.
"You're no common thief. That shadow-cloaking technique you used—it's not local. Not Brelith, not Royal Audit. I've traced its aura pattern. Southern flare. Which means you're either from the Southern Dukedom… or worse."
Still, the man said nothing.
Charles turned, tapping a glyph rune on the wall. A small alchemical brazier flared to life, casting flickering shadows across the chamber.
"You know," Charles continued, "pain is a crude motivator. But I've learned something more effective."
He reached into a small steel box on the table—retrieving a thin metallic needle inscribed with whispering runes.
"This," he said, "is a Memory Echo Spike. Not lethal. Not even truly harmful. But it amplifies your worst memories and plays them on repeat. A few minutes inside your mind, and it won't be me you'll beg to escape—it'll be yourself."
The spy's eye widened for a moment. Then narrowed again.
Still, no words.
Charles paused. Then chuckled.
"No? Very well."
He handed the spike to Elmer.
"Five seconds only. Then I'll ask again."
Elmer inserted the spike with mechanical precision, pressing it to the man's temple. There was no scream—just a sharp inhale, a tremble, a tightening of muscles so violent the chair groaned beneath the pressure.
Five seconds.
Then Elmer withdrew the spike.
The man slumped, eyes wide, sweat soaking his collar.
Charles stepped forward. "Now. Let's start with your name."
"...S-Serwin."
"Affiliation?"
Silence again.
Charles sighed and gestured. Elmer began tightening the suppression cuffs until the man's veins pulsed with dull agony.
"A second longer next time," Charles said softly. "I have all night. And SIGMA doesn't sleep."
Still nothing.
Fine.
He pivoted to psychological assault.
"You know," Charles said, pacing now, voice colder, "the Southern Dukedom is getting bold. Duke Henry—depraved as ever. Trafficking relics, forbidden alchemy, and spies planted across the north. The King may have stripped him of his Crown Prince title, but his ambitions haven't died. Sedona's rebellion was just a warm-up, wasn't it?"
The spy's lips twitched. That was it.
But enough.
Charles leaned closer, speaking directly into the man's ear.
"I'm going to tell you what's going to happen. You'll give me the location of your handler. You'll tell me who else is embedded in the capital. You'll share the ciphers used to transmit intelligence."
"And if you don't..." His tone dropped, darker. "I'll let Wendy take over."
Behind them, a door creaked open.
Wendy stepped in—no longer the smiling maid with fresh towels and tea. She wore gloves now, and a leather apron smeared with what might have been dye. Or blood.
She said nothing, only picked up a pair of thin metal prongs and smiled.
The spy's bravado cracked.
"Wait—no—no—fine! Fine!"
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
"I was sent by Harven—second command to Duke Henry. Embedded into House Brelith's caravan company as a shadow courier. I was ordered to monitor Ziglar Estate activity… especially you."
"Me?"
"You—your name came up three weeks ago. After the failed assassination attempt during the trial selection. Duke Henry has eyes in the palace. Someone tipped him off that you were… awakening."
Charles's fists were clenched. So, the tendrils were already reaching this deep.
"More," he growled.
"There's another spy… someone inside the Central Estate. I don't know who. All I know is, they're high enough to attend war councils."
Charles exchanged a glance with Elmer, then backhanded the man across the face—not out of rage, but ritual.
A reminder that this was no mere game.
The interrogation lasted another hour—more threats, more breaks in silence, more revelations.
By the end, Charles had a full map of southern infiltration routes, three names of likely agents, and a cipher to decrypt messages passed through merchant logs.
He stood, shaking his hand out.
"Good. You'll be kept in stasis for now—SIGMA will monitor your vitals. If your intel proves false… you'll wish you had died during the capture."
To Elmer, he said simply, "Seal the room. Feed him twice daily. No one enters without my word."
Wendy wiped down the instruments with detached efficiency.
Charles turned to leave.
And paused.
"Tell your Duke Henry," he said without looking back, "that the North remembers. And the unwanted heir of House Ziglar is no longer sleeping."
He shut the door behind him.
And in the silence of the corridor, Charles smiled faintly.
Let them come.
He was ready.
Sealing Shadows and Setting Traps
The corridor outside the interrogation room was silent, but Charles's mind was a storm of motion.
He didn't return to the main estate immediately. Instead, he headed straight to the command alcove in his private study, where SIGMA's interface awaited—its arcane glyphs glimmering faintly above the obsidian terminal, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
"SIGMA," he said, voice firm, "encrypt all data from the interrogation. Compile a threat matrix. Prioritize internal breaches."
[Affirmative. Parsing parameters. Three potential infiltration points: East Wing external staff, estate correspondence division, and Ziglar Armory rotation schedule.]
Charles's jaw tensed. "Issue silent flags to Elmer. No action yet—just surveillance."
[Acknowledged. Shall I initialize passive array scrubbing on all communication channels within a 500-meter radius?]
"Yes. And begin constructing a decoy communications protocol using cipher echo emissions."
[Fabrication of false intelligence channel underway.]
Charles folded his arms. "Now open tactical overlay. I want the East Wing defense grid restructured."
A three-dimensional image of the estate unfolded in glowing lines—each tower, hallway, servant entrance, and secret corridor marked in pale silver. Areas were color-coded based on current array coverage: red for blind spots, yellow for outdated nodes, and green for active barriers.
He stared at the red zones for a long time.
"I want these blind spots sealed. Even if I have to do it with my own hands."
[Based on cultivation levels, you can construct the following array formations: Basic Alarm Glyphs, Tier-1 Impact Reflection Runes, and Single-Node Displacement Tags.]
"Fine. I'll handle those manually. Have Elmer arrange for two Tier-3 Array Masters under false identities. No names. They report only to him."
[Already arranged. Arrival in three days.]
Good. That would buy him time.
He descended into the hidden lower levels again—this time to the secondary vault beneath Lady Evelyne's private chamber, where he'd created a crude lab space. Dozens of scrolls, blueprints, and half-finished constructs filled the tables. He selected a few familiar glyph tags from the schematic shelf and began inscribing.
He wasn't an expert yet. But the knowledge stored in SIGMA—and in the absorbed memory libraries of his predecessor's mother—made him dangerous.
He activated a glowing ink quill and muttered incantations as he etched protective wards along a copper sheet. When he finished, he wiped the sweat from his brow.
They wanted to spy? Let them.
Soon, every entrance, every alcove, every shadow would betray them to him.
But it wasn't enough to play defense.
He was going to bait them.
By midday, Charles was already back in the central courtyard, issuing new security orders to the East Wing's hastily reorganized guardsmen. His presence drew startled glances—he wasn't just giving orders from a chair anymore. He was pacing between units, eyes sharp, voice steady, barked commands laced with conviction.
"You, reposition that stance—your center of balance is off."
"You think a dagger to the ribs gives second chances? Reset and do it again."
"Today's mistake is tomorrow's funeral. Choose which one you want!"
The men had expected the frail, awkward young lord they had ignored for years.
What they got was a general in the body of a boy—one with a tongue sharper than most blades.
To test their vigilance, Charles had instructed Wendy to simulate two stealth incursions at dawn. One by rooftop, the other via hidden servant path.
Both attempts succeeded.
Half the guards didn't even notice.
By lunch, their pride was broken. And Charles made sure of it.
He had them rerun drills in armor beneath the blazing sun, followed by amphibious conditioning in the shallow sea bay bordering the estate. Gineva's icy waters stung the flesh, but Charles ordered everyone submerged to their necks while carrying weighted packs.
Several men vomited from the strain.
One collapsed. Charles dragged him to his feet himself.
Wendy was nearby, arms crossed, half-annoyed, half-impressed.
"Are you trying to kill them?"
"They'll thank me if they survive the next assassin," Charles replied flatly, breathing heavily as he adjusted his weighted belt.
He was soaked, panting, and bruised from the same drills. But he never asked them to do what he wouldn't.
"Three hours amphibious, followed by night blade training," he called out. "And anyone who fails the disarm drill tonight is going to sleep outside with the sea wolves."
Someone groaned. Another cursed.
"Speak up?" Charles barked, turning toward a trembling guard.
"N-nothing, Young Lord!"
Charles smiled faintly. "Good. Now sprint."
Even Knight Elmer, observing from the parapet, gave a rare approving nod.
By evening, Charles limped back to the manor—exhausted, half-frozen, and barely able to lift his arms.
Wendy met him at the stairs, wrapping a heated towel around his shoulders and sighing deeply.
"You know you're still recovering from a shattered core, right? You push like this, and you'll break something again."
"I'll rebuild it stronger," Charles muttered.
She gave him a half-hearted scowl, then handed him a bowl of elixir soup. "Stubborn. Just like Lady Evelyne. And she almost burned down the east tower once during a training binge."
"I'll aim for the west tower instead," he mumbled between sips.
Wendy smirked.
Then her face turned serious. "But be careful. Pushing yourself too fast invites Qi backlash. You're at Foundation Rank 3 now, and your elements are stirring—but they're not stable yet."
"I know."
"But you don't act like it."
"I can't afford to."
She didn't argue.
Surveillance, Shadows, and Strategic Deception
Charles stood atop the tower of the East Wing bastion, his cloak fluttering in the saltwind. The elevated position gave him a view of the shoreline and estate grounds.
He inhaled the scent of ocean and war. "SIGMA," he said quietly, fingers brushing the obsidian gauntlet, "update me on all flagged patterns of surveillance activity since dawn."
[Five instances of abnormal energy resonance detected. Two near the western supply depot. One at the armory register. Two others… within the estate garden perimeter. All deemed low-grade monitoring arrays—likely observational. No hostile output detected.]
"But enough to prove someone's watching," Charles muttered.
[Correct.]
Later that morning, Charles strode into the estate records chamber. A select few "altered" records had been prepared: fictitious troop movements, faked cultivation breakthroughs, and a scheduled transfer of spiritual cores that didn't actually exist.
It was a delicate fabrication.
"SIGMA," he whispered as he tapped a jade rune embedded in the central desk. "Send low-visibility aura pulses encoded with those false dispatch records. I want them subtle—just enough to tempt a hidden observer."
[Decoy channels broadcasting in five… four… three…]
An invisible signal pulsed outward.
[Decoy logs now circulating through standard servant communication protocols.]
Perfect.
Now, he just had to wait. He'd learned in both lives—corporate espionage or noble betrayal—it always worked the same. You dangled bait, then tracked the rats that came nibbling.
By nightfall, SIGMA reported fluctuations in the shielding wards along the northern grain storage wing—one of the oldest parts of the estate.
Unsurprising.
That section was rarely patrolled and not part of the new renovation layout. An ideal hiding spot for someone embedded before the new systems came online.
Charles moved with care as he crossed the shadowed hallway, his steps masked by the Silent Step technique. Each footfall seemed to glide across the ancient stone, and the glow of the Aetheric Crystal Core within his chest allowed him to subtly suppress his presence.
He didn't bring Elmer this time.
This was personal.
Behind one of the grain chutes, concealed by illusion magic woven into rotting storage barrels, he found a hidden aperture in the wall—a narrow crawlspace that led to a side corridor branching into unused servant quarters.
Inside: evidence of occupancy. A cot. Canteens. A merchant's cipher journal.
And a communication crystal—faintly warm, still active.
Charles didn't touch it.
Instead, he placed a single rune glyph beside it, one of SIGMA's custom fabrications—designed to silently record all transmitted energy signatures. Once someone on the other end tried to connect, SIGMA would trace and scramble the feedback into a delay loop, allowing Charles to listen in while appearing to remain undetected.
Trap laid.
But it wasn't enough to catch spies.
By the third day, Charles had begun an information warfare campaign from within the estate. False rumors of a secret weapon discovered by Duke Alaric's youngest son spread through servant gossip lines—deliberately seeded by Wendy and two of the senior kitchen staff Charles had personally vetted.
Other fabricated leaks included:
A "new cultivation technique" that accelerated dantian recovery.
A secret training scroll "passed down by Lady Evelyne herself."
A planned expansion of Ziglar's personal army under Charles's command.
Each rumor was traced by SIGMA through the estate's info web to measure reaction time and information flow.
The fastest to spread?
The fake technique scroll.
Within hours, SIGMA detected three separate energy tugs against Charles's personal quarters—low-grade probes, likely tests to see if the scroll was stored there.
The trap was working.
By the end of the week, Charles had a complete behavioral map of the estate's internal informants: who talked too much, who listened too well, and who kept their eyes open at night when no one else was watching.
Two junior scribes were marked for shadow surveillance.
One blacksmith apprentice was quietly reassigned.
And three stable hands were sent on "temporary assignments" to the outer village—with Elmer's men tracking their every step.
Charles reviewed the compiled data one night under candlelight, eyes sharp but weary. The adrenaline of discovery never quite canceled out the exhaustion. Still, the East Wing was becoming more than a noble residence. It was a testing ground. A trap. A proving ground.