Laos Territory — Testing Yard
Three Days Later
"Is it ready?" Logos asked, eyes fixed on the enormous iron crate in the center of the yard.
The thing loomed like a coffin built for something that refused to die. Taller than two men, plated in layered iron and reinforced with thick steel bands, it groaned under its own weight. Chains hung from its sides, still swaying faintly from the effort it had taken to drag it across the yard.
A dozen soldiers stood in a loose ring around it.
None too close.
None too far.
Every single one positioned to run.
Masen leaned against a cannon carriage nearby, chewing lazily on a strip of dried meat.
"If it isn't," he said, "we're about to find out the hard way."
Bal stood with arms crossed, gaze locked onto the crate like it might explode.
"You said 'test subject,'" he said flatly. "You didn't say it was the size of a carriage."
Logos ignored him, adjusting the black gloves on his hands with methodical precision.
"Open it."
The soldiers hesitated.
Not out of disobedience.
Out of instinct.
Desax stepped forward, voice cutting clean through the tension.
"You heard the lord."
Chains loosened.
Locks dropped.
The lid creaked open slowly—metal grinding against metal with a drawn-out protest that seemed to echo across the yard.
For a moment—
Nothing.
No movement.
No sound.
Then—
A wet, chitinous scrape.
Masen's grin widened.
"Oh good," he muttered. "It's one of those."
Bal frowned.
"Is that—"
"Yes," Logos said.
Something inside shifted.
A limb—segmented, armored, wrong—dragged itself into the light.
Then another.
Then the rest of it.
A Crimson Peak Crawler pulled itself forward, its massive body bound in heavy restraints, iron clamps biting into its shell. Its mandibles clattered violently as it tasted the open air, clicking with a sound like cracking stone.
The soldiers stepped back.
One whispered a prayer.
Another tightened his grip on his weapon.
Logos simply observed.
"Recovered during the southern sweep," he said calmly. "One of the smaller specimens."
Bal stared.
"Small?"
"It is missing two legs," Logos replied. "Otherwise it would not fit."
Masen chuckled.
"Since you dragged us out here at sunrise," he said, cracking his knuckles, "what's the plan? Shoot it, stab it, or feed it to Kleber?"
"A bit of both."
Logos stepped forward.
Bal grabbed his shoulder instantly.
"What the hell are you doing?!" he snapped. "If that thing eats you, who leads us?!"
"It won't."
"You don't know that!"
"Let go."
"I'll call Lucy if you don't explain—"
"Don't worry," Masen cut in, thumping the cannon beside him. "I'll vaporize it if anything goes wrong."
Logos glanced at him.
"Good enough?"
Bal hesitated.
His grip tightened.
Then slowly—
He let go.
"…Fine."
Logos stepped forward.
And something changed.
It was subtle at first.
Then it wasn't.
The air thickened.
His eyes darkened—blacker than midnight, swallowing what little light touched them. Mana began to seep from him, not like flame, not like aura—
—but like liquid shadow.
Heavy.
Viscous.
Wrong.
Bal frowned.
"…I forgot he could do that."
A soldier whispered, voice trembling:
"Is he… possessed?"
The word spread like a ripple.
Possessed.
Demon.
Wrong.
"This is bad," Masen muttered. "They're getting jumpy."
Logos didn't care.
He stepped directly up to the crate.
The Crawler reacted instantly.
It recoiled.
Not in rage—
But in something far rarer.
Hesitation.
For the first time since it had been dragged here—
It did not lunge.
It did not thrash.
It paused.
Logos met its gaze.
"Now then," he said softly.
"OBEY."
The word was not spoken.
It was imposed.
The crawler shrieked—
Not in fury.
In pain.
The darkness around Logos twisted, writhing like something alive. Shapes formed within it—indistinct, unnatural.
Mouths.
Echoes.
Voices layered over each other, overlapping in impossible harmony.
"SUBMIT."
"BOW."
"OBEY."
"BECOME MY TOOL."
"YOU ARE MINE."
"OBEY."
The air itself seemed to bend under the weight of it.
The crawler thrashed violently, its restraints groaning under the strain.
Its mandibles snapped wildly.
Its body slammed against the crate.
Then—
Slower.
Weaker.
Its movements lost coordination.
Its strength bled away.
Its legs trembled.
Its head lowered—
Not willingly.
Forced.
Logos watched.
Unimpressed.
"Insufficient."
For a moment—
He looked irritated.
Then the darkness surged again.
Denser.
Sharper.
All the voices collapsed into one.
A singular will.
"BOW—OR I WILL UNMAKE YOU."
The crawler let out one final, broken shriek—
A sound that did not belong to predator or prey.
And then—
It stopped.
Completely.
Still.
Silent.
Dead.
The black mana vanished as if it had never existed.
The yard returned.
The sky returned.
Reality returned.
Logos turned away casually.
"Died of fear."
Silence
No one moved.
No one spoke.
The soldiers stood frozen.
Pale.
Breathing shallow.
Bal stared at the corpse.
"…What did you just do?"
No answer came.
Instead—
Another voice.
Sharp.
Controlled.
"What's happening here?"
Every head turned.
Lucy stood at the edge of the yard.
Arms crossed.
Expression cold.
Not confused.
Not surprised.
Displeased.
Logos frowned slightly.
"How are you here? That mana output should not have reached—"
"Deflection," Lucy cut him off immediately. "You are supposed to be smarter than that."
She walked forward.
Each step measured.
Each step deliberate.
The soldiers parted for her without thinking.
"Now, my lord," she said evenly, stopping in front of him, "would you care to explain why there is a Crimson Crawler in the backyard?"
Logos didn't hesitate.
"Just another test."
Lucy's eyes flicked briefly to the corpse.
Then back to him.
"Of course it is."
Logos turned slightly.
"Masen, remove the corpse. I have something else to try."
Masen blinked.
"…There's more?"
Logos ignored the question.
"Bal. Come with me."
He walked past Lucy.
Unstopped.
Unchallenged.
For now.
Lucy watched him go.
She didn't raise her voice.
She didn't call him back.
But her gaze lingered.
Heavy.
Thinking.
Measuring.
"Alright," Masen said, clapping once. "Move it out."
The soldiers snapped back to motion, grateful for something normal to do.
Chains were thrown.
Hooks latched.
The corpse was dragged.
One of the newer recruits leaned toward another, voice low.
"…Why was he so tense in front of a maid?"
The other soldier blinked.
"You're new, aren't you?"
"Yeah. Came during the Red Tide."
Masen overheard.
He snorted.
"No wonder you're clueless."
The recruit stiffened.
"What do you mean, sir?"
Masen hoisted a chain over his shoulder.
"That 'maid' you're talking about?"
He jerked his head toward the manor.
"That's the only person in this entire territory who can tell him to stop—"
A grin spread across his face.
"—and have him actually listen."
The recruit frowned.
"…She works for him, right?"
Masen laughed.
"Kid."
He started dragging the crawler's corpse across the yard, iron scraping against stone.
"She raised him."
He glanced back once.
"And if you think blood alone makes a parent—"
He shook his head.
"You haven't seen enough nobles."
The recruit fell silent.
Behind them, the testing yard slowly returned to order.
But the memory remained.
Of a boy who spoke—
And monsters died listening.