Richard raised his gaze to the assassin. In that instant, her eyes caught a fleeting shadow of disappointment on his face.
"It seems you are afraid of pain after all," he observed calmly. "You're a bit more fragile than you imagine." He shook his head, then turned to a corner of the room, retrieving a tattered cloth. With careful effort, he stuffed it into her mouth.
The assassin struggled, muffled sounds escaping as the fabric silenced her defiance. Yet even as she writhed, Richard crouched again, resuming his deliberate instruction.
"Now, let us examine another muscle," he said softly, his tone clinical yet measured. "This one is also in your leg, called the soleus. Perhaps you've never seen a sole fish, but the name reflects the shape of this muscle. Its function is vital—perhaps more so than the tibialis anterior we discussed. It not only assists in extending the foot but stores energy during movement, especially while running or sprinting. Damage it, and world records in speed would suffer by mere seconds. And now," he pressed the blade lightly, "you will feel your right leg weaken further. Your foot struggles to extend fully, and…"
He did not pause. "The gastrocnemius, responsible for power in your calf, compromised by precise incisions…"
"The extensor hallucis longus, whose action is to extend the big toe… disrupted, you will feel a noticeable loss in control…"
And so he continued, systematically naming and demonstrating the muscles, while the assassin's sensations grew increasingly unbearable. Pain radiated from her legs, creeping like icy fire through her nerves. Fear, raw and unrelenting, pressed in from all sides, threatening to shatter her resolve. Her will alone held her upright.
Minutes, or perhaps hours—time seemed to stretch endlessly—passed before Richard finally ceased, standing upright. He wiped the blood from his hands and removed the gag, letting her draw breath freely.
Yet the assassin did not cry out in relief. Her wide eyes locked on him, and from deep within her throat came a trembling chant:
"Kill me… kill me… do it… you demon!"
"The problem is…" Richard dragged his words deliberately, letting them hang in the tense air, "I do not wish to kill you just yet. I still wish to learn some truths from your lips."
"No! I will never tell you anything! Kill me if you must! Do it! Just do it!" Her voice rose in desperation, echoing through the dim room.
Richard raised an eyebrow, considering her words carefully. "Judging by your current state, I believe that with another precise move, you would reveal everything I want to know. You are close to mental collapse. However…" He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, studying her carefully. "…even without speaking, I already know a great deal. A killer of your caliber is never employed casually. Your determination, your resolve—surely rewards have been promised. Or perhaps threats, against your family, coercion… Such arrangements require influence, power. Certainly, a noble with substantial standing."
He took a slow step closer. "I have spent my life largely confined to this castle, preparing for matters of my inheritance. I have never provoked anyone deliberately outside the barony. And yet, someone has gone to extraordinary lengths to assassinate me. Few could orchestrate this, and fewer still with reason to do so."
Richard's tone softened, though it remained precise. "Analyzing the situation… the identity of the one behind this attempt is nearly self-evident. If I am correct, it must be my elder brother, Edward Angri, long absent on maternal noble training, hesitant to return. Perhaps he considers me—his magically adept younger brother—a danger to his survival. Perhaps he fears my presence could interfere with his inheritance. Foolish, yet rational."
He crouched slightly, the tip of the knife glinting as he studied her face. "Now, perhaps I should politely greet my brother… ask after his well-being?"
The assassin's eyes widened abruptly. Her breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps as comprehension—and terror—dawned upon her. She stared at Richard, realizing at last the gravity of the plot. After a moment, her voice trembled but rang with clarity:
"So… this is why someone would go to such lengths to end your life. You… you are too clever. Too dangerous. Like a wizard, like a demon. People like you must die! They must!"
Richard smiled faintly, almost amused. "Is that so?" His tone remained calm, without anger. "Yet the cruel truth is, you are the one facing death now. Though you act merely as a tool, carrying out your task without malice, sparing you would be merciful. But I am not a saint. You nearly succeeded in killing me. A threat must be neutralized."
The assassin's eyes flickered, a brief glimmer of hope extinguished by the reality of her situation.
Richard continued with clinical calm, "However, I do not need further information. I know enough. Remaining details are irrelevant. So, in essence, your life… is expendable. Truly."
With that, he raised the knife decisively. The blade descended—but instead of cutting her, it struck the rope binding her.
The rope snapped with a sharp pop, and the assassin was released. Her body, weakened from prolonged restraint and injury to the right leg, did not immediately retaliate. Confusion and disbelief clouded her mind.
Not killed? Freed? After all the torture, she could scarcely comprehend the reality before her. The young noble before her—this boy, this demon—what did he truly intend?
As she pondered, Richard's blade swept along her neck, grazing the surface lightly. A subtle, unnerving chill spread through her throat, discomforting yet not overtly painful. He then grasped her hands, positioning them over the small incision, pressing firmly.
"Use your hands," he instructed, voice low and precise, like a physician guiding a patient. "Press firmly. Just now I severed part of your trachea. It is not fatal. Air still reaches your lungs. But I also cut a few minor blood vessels—not the main arteries, but sufficient to cause fatality if left unchecked. Blood will flow into your lungs, simulating drowning. This process will last approximately four to five minutes. By covering the wound, you slow the flow. With effort, survival may extend to ten minutes, doubling your experience of suffering. You will feel true suffocation. Study this sensation. Ten minutes, perhaps more, if you persist in holding pressure."
Her muffled voice emerged from the wound, weak and indistinct. Richard listened carefully, understanding every word.
"You ask why I treat you this way?" he said softly. "Simple. This is punishment. You refused to cooperate when given the chance. That was your choice. This is the consequence."
Richard's tone was resolute as he turned, pushing the door open. The sound echoed, a soft squeak, before he stepped outside. A final squeak announced the door closing behind him.
Two worlds existed now, separated by a door: inside, one struggling for life; outside, a boy of noble blood, calm and commanding. The assassin pressed her hands to her throat, trembling, every fiber of her being gripped by terror, teetering on the edge of death.