Chapter 119
In the Thracian night that had begun to settle after the chaos of interdimensional conflict, Nirma raised his hand once more, and from beneath his robe, he produced a small triangular object that shimmered faintly under the starlight.
Arya, still standing beside him with slightly labored breathing, could only watch as Nirma pressed the object, and suddenly, in the air—right above Leontios' unconscious body—a crack appeared.
The crack widened, forming a slowly rotating circular doorway, and from within it, a glimpse of a dark room could be seen—filled with transparent containers holding strange, writhing objects.
Without hesitation, Nirma extended his hand, and from within Leontios' unconscious body, that pitch-black mass which had previously emerged and vanished was suddenly pulled out again, screaming in a voice that could not be heard but could be felt in every nerve, before being sucked into the circular doorway along with dozens of similar masses already contained within.
Within seconds, the doorway closed, the crack vanished, and everything returned to normal as if nothing had ever happened.
The Prefect's soldiers standing around them blinked in confusion, seeing only Nirma and Arya standing calmly within their circle, while Leontios still lay unconscious on the ground.
To their eyes—already influenced by Arya's projection device—what had just occurred was nothing more than a routine exorcism successfully completed, ending with prayers and the sign of the cross, and now they simply had to wait for the fugitive to regain consciousness before escorting him back to Constantinople.
They did not see the dimensional doorway.
They did not see the specialized prison for the Abnormals.
They did not see the dozens of black masses writhing inside transparent containers.
They saw only the cold Thracian night, a former slave lying weak on the ground, and two imperial investigators standing calmly as though they had just completed a routine task.
Dozens of seconds passed in silence, broken only by the wind and the pounding hearts of soldiers still fueled by adrenaline.
Then, slowly, Leontios' body on the ground began to move.
His fingers—bound behind his back—clenched and loosened several times, his closed eyes twitched, and finally, with a long groan escaping his dry, aching throat, Leontios opened his eyes.
He stared at the dark Thracian sky for several seconds, confused, then with difficulty, he lifted his head and rubbed his bruised temple against his shoulder, as his hands could not move freely.
Pain spread throughout his entire body—from his battered face, from his possibly broken nose, from his bruised abdomen, from every part of him that had just been the target of blows and kicks.
He looked at the Prefect's soldiers surrounding him, then his gaze shifted to Nirma and Arya standing not far away, and in a hoarse voice that barely escaped his lips, he asked.
"What… what happened? Why am I here? Why does my entire body hurt? What did you do to me?"
In the quiet of the Thracian night that grew colder by the moment, Arya blinked once—a small, nearly imperceptible gesture, yet enough to serve as a signal for Nirma.
Nirma, with his sharp and watchful left eye, observed Leontios lying weak on the ground, his breathing now steady, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of deep sleep despite his body being covered in wounds and bruises.
Behind those closed eyelids, Leontios was nothing more than a former slave who had just gained freedom—a simple blacksmith who wished to begin a new life in the Balkans.
Yet behind all that, Nirma and Arya knew a truth that no one in this world could ever know.
That Leontios had merely been a victim all along—his body only a vessel, his mind only a hostage to an Abnormal that had nested within him for who knew how long.
When Nirma's left eye met Arya's gaze, within that exchange lay thousands of unspoken words.
They both understood—truly understood—that the eighteen lives taken by Leontios' hands were not his fault.
Not his will.
Not a sin that could be fully placed upon the unfortunate man lying before them.
Nirma let out a long breath, then stepped forward toward the Prefect's soldiers who still stood around them with tense, questioning expressions.
He looked at each of them one by one, ensuring every soldier heard what he was about to say, then spoke in the formal tone he usually used when delivering reports.
"Soldiers, listen carefully. As you know, we have conducted a lengthy investigation into the murder of eighteen crusader soldiers, including Étienne d'Arques, aged thirty-four. During the investigation, we suspected that Leontios Chalkeus here was one of the main suspects. That is why we pursued him all the way to Rhegion, and that is why some degree of violence occurred during the arrest."
Some soldiers lowered their heads in guilt, while others remained upright with blank expressions.
Arya continued, "However, after further examination—after interrogation and a search for evidence at his residence in the Forum Tauri—not a single piece of evidence was found to implicate Leontios in those murders. None at all."
Leontios, who had been lying with his eyes closed, suddenly opened them wide.
He stared at the Prefect's soldiers with a look difficult to interpret—a mixture of confusion, anger, and disbelief.
Slowly, with great effort, he lifted his battered body, sitting up despite every movement feeling like being cut by thousands of blades.
His hands bound behind his back prevented him from moving freely, yet they did not restrain the anger rising within his chest.
"No evidence?" he repeated, his hoarse voice rising.
"No evidence, yet you chased me like hunting dogs chasing a rabbit? No evidence, yet you beat me like this? Look at my face—look at my body—look at my wounds! And you say there is no evidence?"
He growled, his eyes blazing as he glared at the increasingly uneasy soldiers.
"You will answer for this, soldiers. I will not hesitate to report your actions directly to Emperor Alexios I. I will tell him how the Prefect's soldiers, who are supposed to protect the people, act like robbers and murderers. I will—"
But before Leontios could finish his threat, Nirma cast a quick glance at Arya, and Arya—already prepared—stepped forward.
In his hand, Arya carried a small sack typical of the year 1101 AD, made of coarse fabric tied with a rope.
He tossed it carefully onto Leontios' lap, and as it landed, the clear clinking sound of metal rang out.
Leontios frowned, looked down, then with his bound hands, tried to open the sack.
Arya did not stop at one.
One by one, he threw six more small sacks beside Leontios, all filled with coins, all producing the same metallic clinking sound as they hit the ground.
When Leontios finally managed to open the first sack, his eyes widened at its contents.
Dozens of hyperpyra—high-value Byzantine gold coins—gleamed under the dim torchlight.
The other six sacks contained copper and silver coins in considerable amounts—enough to allow a former slave to live comfortably for years.
To be continued…